THE PEN DRIVE

For a journo in the print media, the thrill and chill of being on the news desk of a newspaper is simply unbeatable. The thrill because our world seems to be changing fast and the chill because newspapers need to match this pace with gripping stories, catchy pictures, sharp headlines and, of course, snazzy presentation. The faithful reader needs a good enough reason to pick the newspaper the morning after and gorge on the news to begin his mental marathon for the day. He already had his share of breaking news (courtesy news channels) by the time he hits the sack but he still yearns for that something extra in the morning. The news has to be extraordinary somehow — the language, content, packaging and presentation everything counts.

The other day there was a low-intensity (which was later found to be medium-intensity) blast in Varanasi early in the evening , around 6.30 pm, but by then almost all the stories had been slotted on the pages, pictures had been selected and most of the pages had been designed and completed as well. Well, the story kept growing in intensity and magnitude and couldn't be missed. Every minute there was an update. A blast in the holy city in Uttar Pradesh, Varanasi, during evening aarti just a day after the 18^th anniversary of the Babri demolition, the terror group, IM, claiming responsibility for it, was indeed news worthy. On a day when Neera Yadav and Ashok Chaturvedi were clamouring for space along with WikiLeaks founder Julian Assagne and former telecom minister A. Raja, it was a tough job to do justice to this explosion. The edition was obviously delayed for the stories from the spot came late and then it was difficult to say everything, in a precise and concise manner and without compromising on the deadline. Obviously, the deadline was the first face the wrath. But the icing on the cake came next day when the Editor himself walked and angrily asked, “Who did the blast page?” Well, it wasn’t expected after toiling so hard the night before. The person who did it rose to the occasion and accepted that it was indeed his doing. “It was very well packaged, I must say,” the Editor thundered before grinning his way out. Wow!!! Can you beat this feeling? No, certainly not. No doubt you are a news buff and I sincerely appreciate it, but you get what we serve you on the newsprint. And that is where I somehow justify my decision to be part of a newspaper, in this case a tabloid. It’s an experience which is just inexplicable… a career where I am not by default, but by choice. I am where I am because I wanted to be. So no matter how much I crib and complain, this would always be my beloved, first love and last affair. Being back in the grind after three years feels great and here I must very apologetically bid my stint at a magazine a sweet goodbye, till we meet again.

Can you explain in one word what it is to fix a headline after juggling with all the possible options trying to say it all in a single column, three-deck space only to realize the word used there has already been mentioned in another headline on a different page? It is maddening. Insane. Crazy. Absurd. What a waste, isn’t it? This is unfair but that is how it is. The fight with the designers over kerning and scaling the headline beyond the permissible limit loses its sheen anyway. Another struggle begins… this time with the production guys, who first refuse to accept this change which they erroneously call a mistake, and then after giving an earful over recklessness for having missed this repetition in the first place, they do as directed. They make this much-needed change and we have no choice but be sincerely obliged for their generosity. After all, it saves us from our boss’s ire the next day. If it hadn’t been done, the news editor would be shouted at in the edit meeting. And he seems to believe in Newton’s Third Law more than anybody else. He has to give us our share of scolding, quite generously and mind you, it is quite an unpleasant experience. After all, it is a pleasure to give more than you have actually got. You have to be at the receiving end to believe what I am saying. But God forbid this shouldn’t happen anytime soon.

The Golden Rule here is bouquets are collective, but brickbats are yours and only yours. When it comes to mistakes, what can beat the joy of seeing the page, which you had made the night before after sacrificing your dinner, being callously post-mortemed the next morning and to make it even worse, the agony doesn’t end; it seems to have just begun. The page is ruthlessly marked in red and then hung on the board for everyone to see what you actually did but shouldn’t have, if only you wanted to avoid this embarrassment. Humiliated and hurt over the public display of your ignorance, you take one last look at the page before burying the mistakes with a vow never to repeat them ever, at least not in the coming few days or till you forget this embarrassment, whichever is later. A reader wouldn’t even have noticed it, until and unless it a glaring and daring mistake, but wordsmiths here can almost leave you gasping for breath if they found an article missing or a noticed a misplaced punctuation mark. I hate the auditor who does this job so sincerely, but can’t do much about it. He’s paid to do this — mark our errors which are otherwise easy to be ignored (for the readers), but difficult not to notice (for him). One man’s misery is always other man’s pleasure someone rightly said.

What beats the excitement of being away for a day from this mad-sad newsy environment? Perhaps nothing can, trust me. But such pleasures are counted few. The work in a news desk usually begins late in the evening and goes on late after midnight, which means your family and social lives will go haywire. If you are a late riser, this is a blessing in disguise for you can curl and snore away to glory till late in the morning. But if you have friends outside this fraternity, you are in for some trouble sometimes. It would be like living in the same city but different time zones. Must not forget that a newspaper is printed practically every day of the year and so the work week is generally six days, one earns an off mostly on week days as the married ones or the lucky few here get to enjoy their weekends. I envy the privileged class. I can at the max beg and borrow offs, but not steal. The duty roster says it all. This means no more Pau Hana (pronounced "pow hana", it is a Hawaiian phrase literally meaning "finished work" but generally refers to the practice of leaving work early on Friday to start the weekend) for me.

WE blindly trust the printed word, no matter what we see, hear, we believe what we read. So hail newspapers!!! But imagine if this how it is in a newspaper which comes out once a day, what it would be like in television newsrooms which thrive on bringing news as it breaks. I wish I could feel that pulse… Amen!!!